


That One Time Q Ended Up in Jail

by silvergenesis



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Made up Q background, Mild Language, Mild homophobic remarks, Mild mild smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 07:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16487981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergenesis/pseuds/silvergenesis
Summary: It's the first time Q is seeing his family in five years so of course this would be exactly the right time for a police raid.





	That One Time Q Ended Up in Jail

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, welcome to my fic! I've lurked for years on AO3 and have finally decided to publish some work (mainly because I actually managed to finish this one.)
> 
> So I hope you enjoy reading this piece I've written. It's a rather self-indulgent piece of utter, pointless nonsense, but I did have fun writing it.
> 
> Warnings for some mild homophobia in the fic expressed on the part of Q's family. It doesn't get explicit or anything.
> 
> This fic was not beta read so all mistakes are my own. Also, I am not British so I did my best with Britishisms. Apologies if I failed.

Five Years Ago

“Terrence Oliver Sinclair.”

Terrence tries not to fidget. He sits as straight as possible and forces his jittering leg still, clasping his hands together to stop them from twiddling with the edge of his sweater. Across from him, a seeming mile away on the other side of a vast oaken desk, sits a woman of diminutive size. M, Q had told Terrence she was called. Her eyes are tilted toward a spread of papers on the desk before her, a relief to Terrence who moments before, had tried not to squirm under their intense and piercing blue scrutiny.

“Degrees in computer science and engineering from Cambridge University. Average grades. No commentary of note from professors. Employed with the City of London IT department since graduation three years ago. Standard fare really.” The woman flips a few more pages. Sets her clasped hands on the edge of the desk before her. Looks up and gives Terrence another assessing gaze.

“And yet, here we are.” Terrence does his best to match her gaze. His eyes are beginning to water though, and he desperately wants to look away.

“Let me tell you a little something about us.” M finally looks away from Terrence. He tries not to breath too audible a sigh of relief. “At MI6, we are the best of the best. And because we are the best of the best, we look for the best of the best the United Kingdom has to offer. Nothing less will do. MI6 protects the security of our great nation from terrorists and murderers who would see great harm done to her innocent citizens. Substandard personnel will only hinder us in these endeavors. So tell me then, what is it that Q sees in you, someone who is so average?”

Terrence swallows, wills his voice to remain steady when he speaks. “Cred… credentials will only tell you so much about a person’s skill set. It won’t tell you much of what they’ve done and what they can do.” He’s relieved that, except for the start, the rest of his response comes out smooth and calm.

“Hmm. And tell me Mr. Sinclair, what is it that you can do?”

“I’m a damn good hacker ma’am,” Terrence says bluntly, the way Q advised him he should.

“Hacker?” M’s eyebrows raise slightly but she looks less than impressed. “Most of Q-branch used to hack as a hobby in the past, or so Q assures me it’s all in the past. Not a remarkable asset to have here unfortunately.”

“I run a consultation company called TS Securities.”

This gets a slightly higher eyebrow from M and a small spark of interest. “Your financials don't indicate a secondary income.”

“They wouldn't. TS Securities is ostensibly owned and operated by a Trenton Solomon. He lives in a nice flat near Piccadilly Circus and he pays his taxes like any good citizen should.”

“I take it he also doesn’t exist,” M says, her tone dry as a desert.

“You would be correct.”

“So TS Securities is you then?”

“Yes.” Terrence clears his throat before he elaborates. “I created his profile and inserted him into the government databases.”

“The databases owned and operated by the British government.” M’s tone is not questioning.

“Uh, yes,” Terrence says, trying not to blush.

“You hacked them?”

“Yes ” Terrence feels the blush creeping onto his face anyways.

“Alright,” M says. “And TS Securities does what then?”

“Digital security consultation for businesses and governments.”

M stays silent and merely looks at him.

“I- uh- hack their system security to find weak spots and then offer recommendations on what can be done to secure their systems better against future hacks.”

“I see,” M studies him some more. “Any other hacking activities then?”

Terrence tries not to wince. His fingers give in and grab the hem of his sweater though he manages to stop himself after one comforting twiddle.

“A few years ago I was a big player in the black hat hacking community. My handle was catscatscats.” Terrence tries to keep his expression neutral but embarrassment is fighting a winning battle. He had been young when he’d started hacking, the tender age of 11, and he had really liked cats, still did.

“Hmm,” M says again. She glances at the papers before her again. “Back to TS Securities for a moment. Why did you feel the need to run this company under an alias?”

This time Terrence does wince. “That would mainly be because of my family.”

More silence. M is very good at the silence game. Terrence feels an undeniable urge to fill these particular ones he’s sharing with M.

“The Sinclair's aren't the most law abiding citizens. MI5 might know them better.” Terrence tries not to sink into the chair he’s sitting in. “They’re a gang. My grandfather’s the de facto leader of it. My father and brother are his right hand men. I admit, I’m a little close to the leadership, so that makes me suspect. But please trust me when I say that outside of law enforcement and some rival gangs, I am one of their least favorite people in the universe.

“Even so,” Terrence continues. “If they knew what I could do with a computer and how much money I made from consultation, I’m sure they’d find some way to make my life even more miserable while taking advantage somehow.”

M stays silent, just watching Terrence with an assessing gaze. Terrence’s leg bounces twice. “That’s why I’ve still got my rental flat and work for the City of London. They don’t bother with me if all it seems I’m doing is a boring 9 to 5 that makes me just enough to live in a shabby flat with my two cats and maybe go on a cheap vacation every couple of years.”

M looks away, finally. She glances briefly at the papers again and then says, “As catscatscats, what did you do?” Her expression and demeanour are entirely serious while saying Terrence’s frankly ridiculous moniker. She says it with gravitas like she is speaking the name of an important political figure rather than speaking a name produced from a poor mix of too much youth and not enough sense.

“Erm,” Terrence shifts in his chair, his mind racing. The better question was what had he not done? “I was sought out for many projects. Things to do with hacking large corporations and governments.” Terrence clears his throat. It would be difficult to be succinct about what he had done and Q had encouraged succinctness whenever speaking with M. He had also encouraged him to be completely honest with her.

“Frankly ma’am, I did a lot. We might be here all day if I tried to list and explain even half of what I did.”

This silence was the longest and most uncomfortable one yet. Her gaze became, if possible, even more sharp and assessing. Terrence squirmed twice. His knee jittered once and he couldn't help the small twiddle his fingers gave to the hem of his sweater.

“Alright, you’ll go down to Q-branch and list everything you’ve done then leave it for Q to look over. And keep in mind Mr. Sinclair, when I say everything I mean everything. Every little project from the start to the end no matter how small or how large. We will need dates, descriptions, who hired you, who you worked with, what you were doing, everything you can think of. Everything. If you leave here and think of something you missed you are to notify Q to add it to the list. If you wake tomorrow and remember something you are to notify Q. If you are in the shower humming Brahm’s lullaby and you remember something you are to get out right away and notify Q. Do you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” Terrence all but squeaks.

“Good. You’re dismissed. We’ll contact you if we’re interested.” With that M began shuffling the papers, gathering and organizing them. She acts for all intents and purposes like she has completely forgotten that Terrence is in the room with her.

“Yes ma’am,” he says again and then tries not to look like he’s fleeing the room.

When he’s finally found his way down to Q-branch after getting lost three times, Q already has a laptop, disconnected from the MI6 network but still connected to the rest of the internet, waiting for him. He’d been patted down again for technology even though he’d already been patted down before entering Vauxhall. Once he’d been deemed safe, his phone had been taken, and he’d been sequestered to a boring concrete block of a room with the laptop. His only company had been a solitary security camera mounted on the back corner of the wall to monitor him.

Nearly five hours later, Terrence had stumbled out of Q-branch absolutely certain that he was never going to get the job. The exercise had been an eye opener, the recollection of one job leading to another and another until a slow trickle had become a tidal wave and Terrence still wasn’t sure he’d listed all the hacking jobs he’d ever done. There’d been some many tiny ones he’d done through university, things he’d cranked out in an hour in between assignments and readings to make a quick buck here and there. Terrence had known he’d done a lot but he hadn’t thought he’d done that much. It had been with a defeated air that Terrence made his way home and flopped into his bed in his shabby one-room flat.

Three days and eight more calls to Q later, Terrence’s phone rings. On the other end of the line a brisk and unfamiliar voice informs him, “You’re in. Come tomorrow to Q-branch nine o’clock sharp. If you’re not there we’ll assume you're not interested. Are we understood?”

“Yes,” Terrence stutters barely able to grasp what’s happening.

“Have a good afternoon then.”

The next day, Terrence arrives at Q-branch nine o’clock sharp, his resignation letter already posted to his manager's inbox at the City of London IT Department.

 

***

 

Present

When Q woke up, he groaned loudly and then rolled over.

“I don't want to go.” Q drags out the last word, sounding more like a tiny child on the verge of a tantrum than a grown man full of worldly experience.

“She's your mother. You're obligated to go.” James’ voice is muffled, his face still pressed against a pillow. Q glances over to see he is being observed by a sliver of intense blue.

“It’s ridiculous. I’m seeing her next week for a birthday lunch on the day of her actual birthday. She doesn't need me to go to her birthday party which is going to be full of people I never thought I’d ever have the displeasure of seeing again.”

James finally deigns to move, lifting his head up and shimmying sideways until he has Q engulfed in a warm embrace, his muscled chest pressed tightly to Q’s back.

“Your entire family?”

“Yes!”

“Hmm.” James rocks his hips forward.

“Oh come on James. I’m having a crisis here.” Q, nonetheless, can feel himself responding to James’ obvious interest.

“You’ve been having a crisis about this all week ever since your mother called and asked you to go to her party.” James starts kissing a line down Q’s neck. Q is fast losing the thread of conversation.

“I’m still allowed to complain.” His voice comes out somewhat breathily. He can't stop the moan from leaving his throat as James reaches forward and wraps a large, warm hand around his steadily growing erection.

“Hmm, yes. But you’re going to make the two hour drive down to your grandfather’s estate anyways, stay for at least an hour while enduring the horrible people in your family because your mother asked, and it’s her birthday, and you’d do anything to make your mother happy.” James pumps his hand up and down slowly, the way he knows makes Q feel luxuriant with pleasure. Q can't help the way his back arches pushing himself further into James’s grip.

“Stupid estate. Not even his. Poor Earl Durley, robbed of the last of his inheritance. All that history is wasted on them.” Q mumbles most of this, his focus now mostly turned towards rocking his hips back and forth. His hand reaches back to touch James, but James slaps it away, instead reaching down to test his hole. His finger slips in easily, still a little slick from last night, and Q moans breathily.

“To be fair, Durley was already destitute mostly because of his gambling, which he then tried to fix by putting his estate up as the pot in a poker game that your grandfather won.”

“Hmmm,” Q says, now far more interested in trying to work James’ finger a little further in.

James chuckles deeply and rolls them over.

 

***

 

James bundles him off to the party at the appropriate time despite Q’s best efforts. He’d tried for a round two hoping to segue it into an all day sex thing, which James didn’t fall for. In the shower, he had pondered on what he could do to manufacture an emergency at headquarters that would require his immediate presence. Unfortunately, he couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t require the aid of several outside parties, and there just simply wasn’t enough time to coordinate such an effort. With his phone remaining disappointingly free of emergency messages from R, Q had reluctantly got into his rarely used car and driven off with a kiss and a “See you tonight,” from James.

 

***

 

It is a major disappointment to find himself arriving on time at the party. Where was a major roadworks project or traffic collision on the highway when you needed one? He spends long minutes simply sitting in his car looking around. Ahead of where he has parked, a long drive curves gradually up a gently sloped hill atop which sits a sprawling Tudor-style mansion. In every direction there are verdant fields that turn into rolling hills with a large forested area bordering everything.

With a sigh, Q exits the vehicle and drags his feet up the drive. Vehicles are parked haphazardly everywhere -- on the grass and on the drive, wherever there is space -- all of Q’s relatives having shown up for Mum’s big five-oh party.

It’s not difficult to hear that the party is already in full swing. Music is thumping noisily through the air, the bass making Q’s teeth vibrate. There are shouts and whoops and what sounds like people splashing around in a pool. When Q rounds the corner of the mansion he realizes it’s not a pool but an enormous fountain Q’s relatives are splashing around in. The fountain is a work of art with elegantly carved stone scrollwork lining the base and a large ornate statue of a woman holding a jug topping the fountain. A young toddler is hanging off the jug, set there by his father, a second or third cousin that Q vaguely recognizes.

The larger party itself has been set up in the gardens that back the mansion. The elegant topiaries and plantings are a total mess, footprints tracking here and there through the flower beds. A large ornate bush of English roses has been festooned with rolls of toilet paper and Q can see beer cans and bottles littering the lawn. He’s impressed to note that several people are already passed out, likely due to drink, laid out on the grass or sprawled out messily on lawn chairs, and it’s only one o’clock in the afternoon.

Q can already feel his head beginning to ache, and he’s only been here a minute.

“Oh my shit. Look who it is.” Q turns and feels his headache worsen. His cousin Anna stands behind him, her face caught in an expression that is a mixture of surprise, horror, and malicious amusement. She starts giggling hysterically. “Kev’ come over here! Look who it is!” She shouts. She sways a bit and Q realizes she’s well on her way to being pass out drunk.

Q can’t quite contain his expression of disgust when he sees a gaggle of his hulking cousins come trundling over to where they are. He’s surprised their knuckles aren’t brushing the ground their countenances were so alike with a gorilla’s.

“Oh my god! Hey homo!” Kevin says, his tone friendly, but his face lighting up with vicious glee.

It takes all of Q’s considerable will power not to simply turn around and walk back in the direction he just came from, waving his middle finger in the air while he went.

“We thought you was dead Terry.” This one is Andrew. “Caught some gay disease or summin’.”

His cousins chortle and Q rolls his eyes. He has a dozen things he wants to say to that but he opts to keep his mouth shut, intent on keeping things peaceful for his mum at her birthday party. “Excuse me,” he says and shoulders past his way past the wide frames of his cousins.

“Oi rude!” Anna snaps but immediately laughs in a high pitched squeal that hurts Q’s ears.

“Yeah, come back here twinkle toes! We ain’t done yet. We haven’t see you in years, got a lot of catchin’ up to do!” Kevin hollers after him.

“Oh come on, you gotta tell us about them tippity toppity ballet recitals you’ve been doin’” Andrew adds in a shout.

Q can’t resist giving them the middle finger then, but it only induces more raucous laughter as he knew it would.

It’s a relief to finally spot his mum. The sooner he can talk to her and show her he showed up, the sooner he can leave.

“Sweetheart! You made it!” Mum’s face is a beam of sunshine and she sweeps him up in an exuberant hug. “Oh it’s so good to see you!” For the first time since he arrived at the estate, the tight ball of tension in his gut releases. “Oh I missed you! It’s so good to see you!”

“Mum we saw each other two weeks ago for lunch,” Q says, rolling his eyes good naturedly.

“Pish,” Mum says, slapping his arm lightly. “I can miss my son however much I want, even if you’re gone for only an hour! Now come on, walk with me. Tell me everything new that’s been happening with you!” She loops her arm through his and begins steering them towards the outer edges of the garden where less Sinclairs are bound to be, more interested in the food and alcohol closer to the house.

There’s a nice winding path that borders the edges of the garden, shaded by overhanging tree branches and cleverly placed trellises covered in a wide assortment of climbing plants. The warm summer air is heavily perfumed with numerous bushes of fragrant English roses. If Q doesn’t think about it, he can almost believe he and his mum are the only ones on the property.

“So, how are you and that boy of yours doing?” Mum says when they’ve reached the relative privacy of the paths. “When am I going to get to meet him?”

“You know, not too bad. It’s been pretty great. Actually.” Q can’t quite stop the blush from coming up on his cheeks. “I’d have to arrange a date he’s available that we can all have dinner on. He can get busy.” 

“I’ll be looking forward to that,” Mum says with a smile. They walk a few more paces and then she says. “Your brother Norman’s out of prison you know. Got out two days ago for good behaviour.”

“Oh?” Q says, and then a moment later lamely adds, “Good for him.”

“It’s been nice having him at home again. Now your da’ has company when he’s out and about on his business thingies for the family and I’ve got a taste tester for my cooking again.”

Mum talks on then, updating him with the latest gossip about family members, which aunts and uncles were doing what, what cousins were going where, and the such. Q contributes to the conversation with small stories about his coworkers (who are actually the Q-branch minions), and vague descriptions of certain work projects he can talk about. Nothing too much because his mum doesn’t know he doesn’t work for the City of London any more. They also never talk about the family business mostly because his mum knows little to nothing about that side of the family having always been kept in the dark by his father. This has been the only thing Q has ever agreed upon with his father.

It seems like no time has passed at all before his Mum checks the time on her watch. “Oh my, we’d better head back in. Lunch is about to start.”

Q tries not to wince. “Do you think maybe I could just head out now?” The look his mum gives him is the look recently kicked puppies and tiny babies who have just lost their soothers get on their faces. “Or I could stay a little while longer… I guess.”

“Oh love, I know the family can be a bit mean to you,” Mum says, her eyebrows creasing together. “But give it some more time yeah? I think they’ll come ‘round soon and it’ll all be good again.”

Q sighs heavily and shakes his head. Oh bless his mum and her lovely little fantasies. She’s always believed that given enough time, the family will magically get over their homophobia and welcome Q back with open arms.

“Um sure Mum,” he says..

“Oh you!” Mum smiles and shakes her head. “You’ll see. Grampap let me invite you to my birthday party now didn’t he? That’s progress! Now then, won’t you stay until cake at least? Com’on Terry, for me?”

“Oh alright,” Q says reluctantly.

When they get back, the patio is already crowded with hungry Sinclairs. Most of them are swaying in a dangerously uncoordinated attempt to follow the beat of the Top 40s music thumping from the speaker system. Above their heads, a massive pink banner adorned with the words “Happy 50th Birthday!” flutters over the first floor windows of the mansion. Balloons bounce gently along the ground like colourful tumbleweeds, getting tangled up in the feet of passer bys. It seems they were just blown up and then tossed onto the ground willy nilly. Nearer to the house, two bbq’s are being worked by some of Q’s cousins, churning out piles of burgers, hotdogs, and steaks for the hungry crowd to eat.

Mum stays firmly attached to his arm, steering him unerringly towards the tables ladened with an enormous assortment of food. There’s mac ‘n’ cheese bubbling over with cheese, pasta salads covered in creamy sauces, greasy pizzas freshly ordered from the shop, platters of cheese, meat, and crackers, about ten different takes on cheesy potato dishes, three massive cauldrons of creamy curries, and a giant lasagna thick with layers of meat and yet more cheese. Another table a little further over groans under the weight of twenty dessert options and enough alcohol to stock the shelves of an entire liquor store. The crowning glory of the spread is a multi-tiered cake, elaborately decorated with colourful swirls of icing, placed front and centre of the birthday banner.

Q feels a heart attack coming on just by looking at the food. He doesn’t consider himself the healthiest eater in the universe but he does partake in the odd vegetable and piece of fruit once in a while.

Mum takes over for him when they get to the buffet table. She shoves a paper plate in his hand and begins scooping food onto it without bothering to ask what he might like.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you to feed yourself,” Mum pauses and glances over Q’s willowy frame. “But I don’t trust you to feed yourself. You’re far too thin Terry, you are.” She chuckles and shakes her head, spooning out a massive serving of mac ‘n’ cheese and dumping it onto Q’s plate. “But that’s all me now isn’t it? I could eat an entire pie to meself and not put on a single ounce, and I know you’re the same.” She continues in this fashion, piling spoonfuls of just about every dish on offer onto Q’s plate until the paper plate is bending under the weight of the food. Then she orders a burger off the grill from his cousin Steven and promptly adds it to the teetering pile of food when Steven obliges her. Q thinks carrying the plate around should constitute a workout at this point, it’s so heavy.

After that Mum is off on the rounds. She flits from relative to relative, always ensuring Q is nearby, thanking each of them for coming to her birthday party and making conversation, ever the polite host. Q is content to stay in the background, all but ignored by his relatives, munching away on bits and pieces of his ladened plate. It’s as Q is getting full and considering discarding the rest of his still overflowing plate that they happen upon the people Q was most hoping to avoid.

They’re huddled at a table with a few of Q’s uncles when he and his mum arrive. Q curses his complacency, mentally retracing the route they’d taken through the party and realizing belatedly that his mother had been aiming for this table all along. In hindsight, it was a bit silly to think his mum wouldn’t try to get Q, his Grampap, his brother, and his father at least within talking distance of each other.

“Hey it’s the birthday girl!” Q’s dad, John, says while sweeping her up into an exuberant hug. He plants a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek, which makes her giggle and blush like a schoolgirl. His father looks the same as usual with the trademarked Sinclair look, all squinty eyes and hulking shoulders and thick limbs. There are a couple more grey hairs on his head from what Q can see.

“Marcy, happy birthday. Hope you’re enjoying your day so far.” Q’s Grampap gives Mum a more toned down hug, but no less affectionate. He’s looking grayer as well and far more jowly than the last time Q had seen him five years ago.

“Happy birthday mum.” Q’s older brother Norman is next with another exuberant hug. Norman is the one that’s undergone the most visible change. He must have been working out in prison because his shoulders are even more massive than the last time Q had seen him and his biceps look fit to burst from the shirt he’s wearing.

All the uncles that had been sitting at the table follow after Norman, each wishing his mum a happy birthday and giving her a kiss on the cheek. Q stands as unobtrusively as possible in the background, hoping against hope that his mum will just move onto the next set of relatives once they’re done here.

There’s an awkward pause where Q can see his mum tilting her head and possibly making odd expressions in the general direction of his father and brother.

“Terry.” His father says, turning to acknowledge him with a pinched expression on his face, nose wrinkled like he’s smelling something bad.

“Dad.” Q says. He stops, not quite knowing what else to say.

“Terry.” His brother says next, in a weird echo of his father, his face also just as pinched.

“Norm,” Q says. “Mum told me you got out of prison early,” he adds lamely after a moment.

“Yeah, two days ago,” Norman says, just as lamely.

Then there’s an awkward silence, the type that’s stretched long and thin and makes your bones itch.

“Terry’s been promoted since we saw him last,” Mum says, her tone a bit desperate. “Manager at the IT department.”

“Still there then?” His father says, tone inscrutable

“Yes,” Q says, unable to help the slight narrowing of his eyes.

There’s another silence then, just as uncomfortable as the last. His mum visibly searches for something to say while his brother, father, Grampap, and uncles stare in every other direction but Q.

“Cake’s here!” A voice shouts in the distance. The oppressive silence pops like a bubble, everyone breathing a sigh of relief.

“What do they mean cake’s here?” Norman says with a frown. His uncles glance at each other in confusion.

Understanding dawns seconds later when from around the corner of the mansion, a human-sized birthday cake appears. It’s being wheeled along by some men dressed in what look to be tuxedos. Aunt Helen appears then, his father’s sister and a woman just as hulking as the rest of the born and bred Sinclairs. A swarm of more aunts and some of his cousins buzz along in her wake.

“Marcy,” Aunt Helen says in a sing song.

“No you didn’t,” Mum says, her cheeks suddenly rosy. Q is pushed aside as they all pull her up towards the patio where the men, who Q thinks are very likely strippers, are setting up. She’s plopped upon a folding plastic chair placed front and centre of the patio.

The show quickly gets underway. It goes how any stripping routine would go. First a heavy beat starts up on the sound system. A few seconds later, a man, also dressed in a tuxedo, bursts out of the cake. Gyrating hips follow and then clothing steadily starts being removed, piece by velcroed piece, revealing chests and abs chiseled from stone. The women of the family hoot and holler while the men either look away or jeer loudly at the strippers. Q sighs, his imagination informing him of all the thoughtful things his family will say to him after the performance is ended.

When it’s done, Mum is laughing hysterically, face beet red from the lap dance she had just gotten.

“Helen, you’re a dead woman!” She hollers. Aunt Helen simply laughs in return with her trademarked nasally cackle.

They sing Happy Birthday to his mum afterwards, the strippers even joining in. The cake is sliced up and served, revealing a deep red cake underneath the thick covering of icing. Q grabs one of the first pieces, scarfing it down so fast he barely even tastes the rich chocolate cake and vanilla buttercream icing. He catches his mum’s eye as he’s stuffing the last enormous bite into his mouth. It’s hard to smile innocently around so much food, but Q makes an effort. Mum rolls her eyes at him and waves him away, returning to her conversation with some of his aunts.

That’s all the permission Q needs to get going. Dumping his disposable plate and fork in the nearest garbage bag, Q walks as fast as he can away from the party without running. Sweet freedom is his now. It’s early enough still that he thinks he’ll have enough time to make good progress on a couple of his projects when he gets home.

Eagerness lending him speed, Q rounds the corner of the mansion at a near jog, only to come to a screeching halt seconds later. Q isn’t sure who is more surprised, him or the police officer who’d been waiting around the corner, her sidearm drawn, a literal battalion of other police officers dressed in tactical gear waiting behind her. 

The police officer recovers first. “Hands in the air! On your knees!”

Q hates to admit it, but he complies almost instantaneously. He’s sure he knows his way around a gun better than most soldiers but knowing how to engineer and build firearms doesn’t help him much when he’s got one pointed at him. 

“Shit!” Someone Q can’t see says from behind the officer. “What do we do now?”

“We move in,” the officer replies, her eyes glinting with steely determination.

“Not everyone is in position yet!”

“Do it anyways!” She says.

A second later, the battalion of officers starts moving past, guns and assault rifles out and at the ready. They disappear round the mansion corner and Q can hear the officers start shouting commands for everyone to drop on their knees and put their hands up in the air.

There are shrieks of surprise and the music cuts off abruptly.

As the police officer starts reeling of the arrest speech and snapping a pair of handcuffs around Q’s wrists, all Q can think is ‘poor mum.’

 

***

 

The station they are taken to is one of those small country affairs, more used to locking up the odd drunk and disorderly for the night rather than a double-decker bus load full of rough and tumble gang members. When they’re done being processed, Q is surprised to be brought to a room containing three huge holding cells with enough room to hold all the arrested Sinclairs quite comfortably. He notes the fresh paint on the walls, the clean, unscuffed floors, and remembers the rather modern facade of the station he’d glimpsed before being directed inside. Some money has been poured into renovations.

He ends up in the same cell as his Grampap and Norman.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Q hears Norman saying. “I just got out the slammer! Can’t go back in so soon.”

“Don’t you worry, it’ll get sorted,” Grampap says, laying a meaty paw on his grandson’s shoulder. He glances briefly in Q’s direction, looking away quickly when he realizes Q is looking back.

Q narrows his eyes.

Not much happens for the first little while. Q sits as unobtrusively as possible in the side corner of the cell, hoping no one gets bored enough to start a game of “pick on the faggot fairy.” Grampap, Norman and a few of his uncles and cousins are huddled in a corner having a heated discussion full of urgent whispers and frantic arm waving. A cell over, his father watches the proceedings, looking like he’s dying to be involved.

A few minutes later some of the Sinclairs break off from the discussion. They walk about the edges of the cell, their routes looking random but the movements too purposeful to be anything but. A second later, one cousin starts hollering. It’s a litany of gibberish, a string of nonsensical insults directed at the police officers in the station. Another cousin starts up another insult and soon another and another, until it’s spreading like a disease, filling the air in all the holding cells with shouted insults.

The noise is deafening and Q plugs his ears trying to ride it out. He sees Grampap and Norman leaning against the wall of bars, seemingly talking to his father. The exchange is short, barely a few seconds long, and then some hidden signal has the noise level dying back down until Q can hear his thoughts again. By that time, Grampap and Norman are back at their benches and his father is casually leaning against the cell bars looking at his hands.

It’s all so very ridiculous.

About a half hour after the spectacle, a man dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit appears flanked by a trio of police officers. He whisks Norman out of the cell and away somewhere, presumably to another part of the station for interrogation. The rest of the afternoon and evening passes in this manner, a Sinclair being singled out by a pair of officers and then being cuffed and escorted away. Sometimes they are back within a half hour, other times, like with Norman, they don’t return until hours later.

Towards the end of the evening is when Q’s turn comes. He’s been half dozing, resting his head against the hard concrete wall when his name is suddenly called.

“Terrence Sinclair!” Q scrambles to stand in response, the phrases ‘finally’ and ‘thank god’ working their way through his mind.

“Step up to the door please,” the officer says when Q is looking at him. His tone is brisk and professional. “Hands through the slot when I say.”

Q does as directed, sticking his hands through the slot when the officer tells him to. He holds in a sigh when cuffs are once again snapped around his wrists.

“Step back from the door,” the officer says. After Q steps back, the door is unlocked by another officer and it swings open smoothly.

“Step through please.” Once Q is through the door, the officer shuts and locks the door.

“Follow Officer Hillard please.” The officer indicates his partner with his hand who promptly starts moving off, leading the way. Q follows her down a hall and around a left-hand corner where she stops at a steel door painted a standard gray colour. Officer Hill unlocks the door and opens it revealing an interrogation room done up in more standard grays.

Inside there is a table with two chairs. A woman, her brown hair pulled back in a neat and professional bun, is already seated at one of the chairs, her hands typing furiously at a laptop. A microphone attached to a slim recorder sits on the table beside the laptop. She looks up and smiles politely when she sees Q. She doesn’t speak until the officers have guided Q to the chair opposite hers and fastened his wrists securely in place on the steel bar anchored in the table. Her finger pokes a button on the recorder and Q can see tiny digits start counting up.

“Alright, my name is Special Agent Kathy Lawrence of MI5. I’d like to ask you a few questions pertaining to an investigation we’re conducting at the moment. Please answer in as much detail as you possibly can. State your name, age, date of birth, and place of birth for the record now please.” The spiel is smooth and practiced. Her eyes are watching him with keen interest. Q feels instantly wary.

“I’d like to place a phone call please,” Q says instead.

Lawrence blinks, looking thrown though it lasts only for a moment. “We can arrange for that later, but for now, I just need you to answer some questions.”

“It’s my right to get a phone call,” Q replies, tone mild.

“You would be correct,” she says. “A phone call will be available to you once we’ve finished here.”

“No, I’d prefer one now.”

Lawrence gives him a hard look. “You do know this isn’t America? There isn’t a Fifth Amendment or some such nonsense like what you might see on the telly. Not answering questions could get you into even more problems than just answering the questions we ask of you.”

“I know that,” Q says with a shrug. “But I’d still like a phone call.”

“You can get your phone call when you answer some questions.”

“And I’ll answer any questions you like, after I get my phone call.”

Lawrence gives him another hard look. She sighs and sits back in her chair. “Look I don’t think you quite understand the situation you’re in,” she starts.

Q opens his mouth to interrupt but then she says, “They’ve flipped on you, you know.”

His mouth continues hanging open and he’s sure he looks like a guileless idiot.

“Yes, it’s true,” she continues. “As I’m sure you know, your brother’s recently gotten out of prison. All we had to do was tell him what he was looking at for prison terms and he caved like a house of cards.” She watches him intently, eyes glittering with an odd mix of curiosity and amusement.

Q has just enough wherewithal to snap his mouth shut, but he remains thoroughly stupefied.

“And just in case you’re wondering, your father, grandfather, and a few of your uncles corroborated what your brother said. So much for family loyalty.” She glances at her nails casually and Q follows her gaze automatically, looking at the neatly manicured talons that spoke more of office work than field work. “Honestly, it’ll be far better for you if you just answer our questions. Make it easy on us and we might be able to shave a few years off for cooperation.”

At that, Q’s back, his mind, which had been frozen with absolute shock and bafflement, whirs back to life and in a split second he’s sorted and assessed everything that’s just happened and the conclusion is glaringly obvious. He’s being framed. But for what?

“And what exactly have they flipped on me for?” Q asks, his diction so precise and sharp, Lawrence would be in pieces on the floor if it were a knife.

Her eyes narrow at him. “Don’t play coy. You know exactly what they’ve flipped on you for.”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Q says evenly. “And even if I did, would I admit to it? That would be the pinnacle of idiocy.”

Lawrence glares at him and Q glares right back. He’s sure she was hoping to shock him into a quick confession, perhaps take advantage of confusion and feelings of betrayal and get Q to say something he wouldn’t normally have.

“Okay Mr. Sinclair,” Lawrence says. “I’ll play. Let’s see.” She starts tapping away at the trackpad of the laptop. “Ah yes, here it is. You are, according to your grandfather, Henry Sinclair, and I quote, ‘the brains of the whole thing, he’s the one get our orders from. Me and John and Norm just tell the rest of the crew what he says.’” She taps some more on the trackpad. “Your father says, and I quote again, ‘the kid is a genius yah? Don’t understand half of what he does but we’re where we are because of ‘im yeah?’”

Q blinks slowly and steadily at her. He gives himself time to parse what she just said to him. Then he says, “That is just asinine.” He leans toward the table, resting his forearms on the edge of it, giving the cuff links some slack around his hands. “You aren’t the lead on this investigation are you Special Agent Lawrence? Because let me tell you, I think your superiors need to bump you down a pay grade or two. We’re where we are because of ‘im yeah?” Q says this last part, loudly and slowly, imitating the way his father might had pronounced the words as well. “It’s been what? Hours at most of interrogation. The only threat is poor old Normie going back to jail. He flips, fine, I get it. But the rest? If the Sinclair’s are doing so well because of me, why throw me under the bus so to speak? I end up in prison, this streak of success they’re apparently on ends.”

“No, I’m not the lead on this investigation,” Lawrence says. She leans her forearms against the table, matching his position. “But six of your family members, high-up in the chain of command, mind you, all said the same thing so of course we had to look into it.” Her expression is calculating as she looks at Q. Q narrows his eyes.

“So, why don’t you cooperate and answer some questions? You’re claiming that you’re innocent, your family is saying you’re the mastermind. Answer some questions, get the truth out, maybe it’ll clear the air and get you out of here faster.” Kathy smiles at him, her tone irritatingly reasonable and her arguments almost convincing. Q’s lips flatten and he glares hard at the agent. He hates being backed into corners. It makes him want to blow things up.

Q deflates with an annoyed sigh. “Fine,” he grits out. Lawrenece grins then, a triumphant expression on her face. “But,” Q continues. “On one condition.”

“What?”

“If you’re not going to let me make a phone, then at least make one on my behalf,” Q says.

Lawrence sits back in her seat and studies him. “Fine,” she says after a moment. “We’ll do that.”

“Do you have a pen?” Q says. Lawrence leans over and disappears for a moment under the table, likely fishing around in a bag Q didn’t see when he came into the room. She reappears a moment later with a standard plastic pen in hand and a sheet of paper.

Q awkwardly scribbles a number on the paper with his bound hands and shoves it back in Lawrence’s direction. “When you call the number, tell them my name and my current location. They might not say much, but don’t take it too personally.”

She looks at the number and only says, “Hmm.”

“I’m trusting you to honor your side of this agreement. Make the call and I’ll answer your questions,” Q says. “Trust me when I say I’ll figure out if you don’t make the call.” Kathy rolls her eyes at him but gets up from her seat. It seems she might be making the call personally herself as she disappears out the door, leaving Q on his own.

When she returns, she’s got a bottle of water and a sandwich in hand.

“Some food for you,” she says, placing them in front of him. “Because it’s going to be a long night.”

Q rolls his eyes at her, but takes the proffered food anyways and eats it.

What follows is long and boring. If Q had to pick a theme for the interrogation it would be the phrase “belabouring the point.” For the three hours they keep him in the interrogation room, the only words that leaves Q’s mouth are “I don’t know,” “I wasn’t there,” and “Can I have more tea please?” Lawrence and her partner, a Special Agent Travis Miller, ask the same questions so many times, Q is sure he can recall verbatim every question they threw at him.

When they finally let him go, it’s nearly gone one in the morning and the station is down to a skeleton crew. He leaves the agents looking frustrated and tired, Miller giving him a look equal parts thoughtful and annoyed. Q’s very certain he just wasted his time in there, but he supposes it was worth a shot at seeing if it would help get him released earlier. If the call was indeed made, Q should be out of the prison by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.

 

***

 

James to strolls into the holding area at about mid-morning, Eve gliding along in his wake, a laptop case in her hand. They are, the both of them, dressed to the nines, jackets tailored with a very obvious -- for those who knew what to look for and most of Q’s family knew what to look for -- accommodation for a gun holster. Eve had chosen a pencil skirt, shorter than usual, that shows off her mile-long legs. Q can hear the drool beginning to drip from his cousins’ jowls.

“Good morning Terrence,” Eve says. There’s the barest trace of amusement on her mocha features. Q gets up slowly, stiffly, trying to work out of the kinks in his back as he steps around his gawking cousins. He slept on the floor last night and it was extremely uncomfortable.

“Good morning Miss Moneypenny, good morning Mr. Bond,” Q says when he gets to the bars. James gives him an assessing look, his blue eyes sharp while they rove over Q’s slight frame, looking for injuries, the rest of his face set in a mild expression. There’s a minute shift, a tiny relaxation to James’ shoulders when he finds everything to his satisfaction.

“Good morning Terrence,” Bond says smoothly in reply. “Prison is an interesting look on you,” he continues, thin lips twitching with the need to smile, his eyes now softening with an amused twinkle.

“Good god, the both of you,” Q says, rolling his eyes. “Can I leave now?” He tries not to sound like a petulant teenager, but when James’ lip twitches more he knows he’s failed.

“Well, calls have been made,” Eve replies. “Some people are being a bit stubborn though.” She leans her modelesque frame against the bars and gives Q’s family a swift once over, her lips twitching with amusement. “Any extracurricular activities you haven’t told us about lately?” She says, sharing a look with James before looking back at Q. He knows they are both on the verge of all out laughter.

“Activities of the small criminal enterprise varieties perhaps,” James says, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. “Perhaps leading said small criminal enterprises?”

“I hadn’t realized I had the time,” Q says drily.

“Well it has been posited that you are in fact a robot that runs off of tea and yelling vigorously at underlings. Who knows what you’re up to when the rest of us are sleeping.” James grins then, unable to contain his amusement.

“Ha, bloody ha.” Q rubs his tired eyes under his glasses. “So when am I going to be able to leave?”

“We’re working on it,” Eve says, expression turning sympathetic. “In the meantime, we’ve a crisis that needs handling.” She lifts the laptop case and slides it between the bars. Q nods, grabbing the laptop case, suddenly eager for the distraction of work. If he’s going to be stuck in here for a few hours more, it’ll be a good way to occupy the time.

“Bond will stay with you. I’m going to have a nice chat with some people. Will be back soon!” Eve leaves with a smirk and a wave of her elegant fingers, gliding away on her stiletto heels. When she’s gone, he plops himself on the ground, back to the bars and front facing his family so that only James will be able to see his laptop screen. After a centering breath, Q flips the lid open and gets to work.

 

***

 

“Wot’s he workin’ on then?” One of the dozens of hulking gorillas caged in with Q says, tone snotty. James glances up from where he was peering over Q’s shoulder reading the rapid fire chat he had going with R at the moment.

R: This would be easier if we could speak.

Q: Can’t talk. Too many ears about. This will have to do.

R: Ugh.

“None of your business,” James says trying not to smirk at the pinched expression this earns him.

“I’d suggest you answer the question boy,” a older man says. He’s a graying monstrosity of a man and James recognizes him from an old family photo Q had shown him once. Grampap, he recalls. Grampap glares threateningly at James in a way that had probably gotten many a small time criminal to fall in line with his demands. It only serves to make James actually smirk.

“But I just did. He’s working on something that’s none of your business,” James says. He glances down again at the chat.

Q: Oh dear. Any immediate danger?

R: The only immediate danger is to Mahmoud’s wine cellar and the bunker itself. 008 is bored enough to start trying to blow things up just for something to do.

Q: Right. Perhaps tell her to hold off on that bit for now.

R: Hopefully she doesn’t figure out the detonator on the battery bomb she was trying to build then. I didn’t give her any help when she asked for it but it may only be a matter of time before 008 figures it out.

Q: Well, time to start hacking the security systems of a security systems company before one of our agents starts another conflict in the Middle East out of sheer boredom.

“Are ya daft? That ain’t no answer!” Another gorilla says. This one is also familiar, if only vaguely. He’s particular built up in his shoulders, chest, and biceps, but that’s the only other defining characteristic James can make out. Otherwise, he’s having a difficult time telling one Sinclair apart from the other. He wonders how it’s possible that Q is related to any of them at all.

“It’s the answer you’re getting,” he says. He watches the laptop screen start exploding with lines of code. The chat log is now filled with more snippets of code, R showing Q what she was working on.

“Well then, I’ll just have to come take a look meself then eh?” James narrows his eyes as he recalls another old family photo Q has shown him. The man is perhaps a few years older than Q and extrapolating from that would make the man possibly Q’s older brother Norman. Norman hauls himself up from his seat and starts lumbering his way towards Q. Without hesitation James whips his 9mm out of its holster and points it through the bars directly at Norman.

“Not another step,” he says, tone deceptively mild.

Norman falters. He looks around, face uncertain, before something seems to bolster his confidence and he looks up with a grin. “You ain’t gonna shoot me,” he says, sneering. “I can tell you’re a government type. Don’t think Terry’s been telling us everything about what he actually does but you government types ain’t gonna shoot without a good reason. You can’t. You’d get in trouble.” Dumb sneer in place, Norman starts moving again.

James briefly considers giving a second warning, then shrugs and pulls the trigger aiming for the concrete wall just over Grampap’s head. The sound of the gunshot echoes loudly around the cell and leaves everyone’s ears ringing. All the Sinclair’s duck, hands reflexively shooting to cover their heads. Directly below him, Q barely even flinches, the outside world dead to him as his hands fly over the keyboard. It’s impressive but James makes a note to try to find a way to work on increasing his situational awareness.

“Next one’s in the arm Norman,” James says conversationally.

“Are you nuts man?” Grampap roars, just realizing where James had pegged the bullet.

“How do you know my name’s Norman?” Norman says eyes wide in shock.

“Old family photos.”

From behind him James hears a door open. He tips his head enough so he can see Eve out of the corner of his eye giving him a quizzical look.

“Norman tried to pry. I decided not to let him,” James says.

“Ahh,” Eve says and disappears back behind the door, shutting it with a click.

“Now Norman, back in your seat. I wouldn’t want to ruin one of those lovely biceps you seem to have put so much work into.” James smiles a smile full of teeth. Norman obediently returns to his seat beside his grandfather who is glaring daggers at James.

He holsters his 9mm when he’s sure no one else in the cell will get any ideas about prying into Q’s work. Then he rests his side against the bars, arms crossed and stands watch over Q.

 

***

 

Despite the short period of time he had to write the program in, the code is still a piece of perfection if Q does say so himself. He sends it to R who sends it where it needs to go. It only takes seconds and then they’re in the systems of Alacore Security. A few minutes later, they’ve found Mahmoud’s bunker security systems and R opens the steel door for 008.

R: 008’s on her way back to Tehran now. Thanks for the assist Q.

Q: No problem, that’s what I’m here for. Honestly though, who needs a security alarm for everytime the door is opened or closed in a bunker that they were only ever going to use for emergencies?

R: 008 thinks it’s because of the daughter. Mahmoud complained about her throwing parties in the bunker. Probably wants to track what she’s up to.

Q: Good grief. Alright, keep that code in our database. Never know when we might run into Alacore Security again. I’ll be back in London as soon as I finish up here.

R: Alright, I’ll see you soon. And don’t worry Q, the outside world hasn’t changed too much. ;)

Q: Cheeky.

Q sends the laptop into sleep mode and snaps the lid shut. He rolls his shoulders, working out the kinks in them from being hunched over for an extended period of time.

“Everything fixed then?” James says. Q blinks up at him. James isn’t looking at him but rather lazily watching all the cells, his arms crossed casually and his eyes glittering dangerously. Q looks around the cells and sees the way the some of the Sinclairs are studiously looking away from James while others are sending challenging looks his way.

“Yes it’s fixed,” Q says. He pushes himself up to standing. “What did you do?” He says in a low voice to James.

“I was just trying to let you work is all,” James says in an innocent tone.

A door opening causes both of them to look behind James. Eve comes prowling through, a cat-got-the-canary grin on her face. Behind her, the man in the grey suit from yesterday appears, face pale, but cheeks high with colour, three other officers trailing in his wake. He looks angry and embarrassed. The other officers look halfway amused. He makes his way quickly over to the holding cell Q’s in, fishing out some keys from his pocket.

He only seems to remember the proper procedures when he’s about to turn the key in the lock. He snarls out the orders for the procedure, roughly shoving the key into the lock and nearly tearing the cell door off its hinges when he orders Q out.

Once Q’s out, the cell door is slammed back into place and roughly locked. He hesitates then, looking at Q. Q watches him glance at Eve who just smiles encouragingly at him. The man glares back at her, spit fire in his eyes.

“I, Inspector Killian Smith, do solemnly apologize for this most grievous of errors on my part. I hope you can forgive me the time you’ve wasted.” The inspector chokes this out, his face turning steadily redder and redder as he spoke.

“Uhhh,” Q says, nonplussed.

Gritting his teeth, Inspector Smith, shoots another glare at Eve. “You can all see yourselves out,” he says and pushes his way past her, storming out the door. Q stares thoughtfully in his wake.

“Did you make him do that?”

“I’m sure he just wanted to convey his deepest regrets,” Eve says, a guileless smile on her face.

“I’m sure,” Q says dryly. “Well then, shall we?”

“We shall,” says James. “But one more thing.”

All the warning Q gets is the warm press of James at his back and then he’s suddenly swept up in a warm embrace, James capturing his lips in a searing kiss. Q flounders for a moment. They’ve never done this before. Though Q is comfortable with his sexuality, he’s never been one for public displays and James only does things like this when the job requires. Q is certain that even Eve, who has joined them for many social outings, has never even seen them hug. Then of course, there’s his family just meters away all gawking at something usually so private for him. What would they be like now that they’ve seen who Q chooses to warm his bed?

Q flounders for another moment. Then someone jeers and it makes Q’s hackles rise.

What the hell did he care what his family thought?

Not wasting another moment, Q responds to the kiss with enthusiasm. When James pulls back, he’s got a smirk on his face and danger in his eyes. Q watches him turn to give the Sinclairs in the cells a long look. The jeering and groans of disgust that had been filling the air dies down by a good half. Q’s satisfied to note some of the Sinclairs are looking wary, if not a little frightened. Some are still giving James a challenging stare but Q is sure James could finish them easily any day of the week.

“Are you both quite satisfied now?” Eve says, but she’s smiling and there’s good humor in her eyes.

“Very,” James says, smirk in place. Without further ado, he wraps an arm around Q’s waist and guides Q out the door. Q can’t help the huge grin that’s breaking out on his face even as he wrestles the laptop back into its case.

After that they are guided to the front of the police station by the remaining three officers who also all look highly amused. At a desk fronted by plexiglass, Q signs out and receives his personal items all gathered together in a clear plastic bag.

“Well, that was interesting,” Q says when they’re all seated comfortably in James’ Aston Martin, Q in the front passenger seat and Eve lounging in the backseat like a queen. “I don’t think I’ll attend any family gatherings ever again. Even if it’s my mother requesting I do so.”

“No I shouldn’t think so,” James says. After a pause, where he pulled out of the parking space of the police station with his trademarked flare, James adds, “I met your mother.”

“Oh?”

“She wants us to have dinner with her on Sunday.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the fic!
> 
> I had some trouble the voicing of Q's family so I apologize if the words they use when speaking is a little inaccurate or inconsistent. I was going for slightly rough and tumble and perhaps a bit uneducated but not sure how well I succeeded.
> 
> Constructive criticism about writing is welcome.


End file.
